Personal Musings category archive
This has been building for some time.
[RANT MODE ON]
What most annoys me about my fellow lefties are the purists–the folks who, if you don’t fight to the death for every jot and tittle of whatever their pet causes may be, turn their backs on you and desert the fight. These are the folks who vote for glibertarians as “protest votes,” because “the two parties are ‘indistinguishable.’”
They are, ultimately, deserters with temper-tantrums.
Do they still think that, if Al Gore had won in 2000, nothing would have been different?
Are they really so clueless?
Purists don’t get stuff done, even as they equate failure with virtue. They remind me of the “student radicals” of my youth, who used to fantasize about American “workers and peasants” uniting, without realizing that the workers hated them (remember the “hard hats“?) and the peasants did not think of themselves as “peasants.”
Purists need to realize that there is a real world–an untidy, un-pretty, sloppy real world–and live in it.
I’m probably about as leftie as you can get and, were I a purist, I would not vote for most of the candidates that I have voted for the past few years. But, honest to Pete, I live in Virginia. I have to take what I can get. And I do so quite happily, because I try to live in the real world.
As my two or three regular readers, as well as my occasional listeners at HPR, know, I am a mystery buff.
I recently stumbled over a great site about mystery stories. If you are also a mystery buff, you must visit “Looking for a Mystery.”
I was led there by ManyBooks.net, a most excellent site for free ebooks.
I discovered it looking for mystery ebooks to read on my Zareason tablet, which does indeed absolutely rock. If you are interested in a tablet, but don’t want to sell your soul to Apple or your cellphone company, check out the ZaTab. It’s Android, so you still sell part of your soul to Google, but you can keep the rest.
Reg Henry counsels selfie-restraint. A nugget:
Full disclosure on selfies: While I have not taken a photograph of myself on a cellphone, being sufficiently quaint to think that their main purpose is to make calls, the younger me did squeeze into those little photography booths provided in malls for boys and girls to take a strip of photos of themselves while making funny faces.
But that wasn’t about the photography or the egotism; it was about the squeezing. Not the same thing at all.
Do read the rest.
On the rare times that I see myself in a web cam, cell phone, or tablet pointed at my face, I think, “What a stupid looking pose. Don’t. Just don’t.”
And I listen to me.
It’s amazing how much neat stuff you can get done when you don’t waste your weekend watching football games to see 11 minutes of action per three hours viewing time.
Fifty years ago today at about this time, I was in last-period gym class showering up and rushing to make the school bus. Some of the kids had heard a rumor that something had happened to President Kennedy.
As we were immature white students in a segregated school system in the Jim Crow South, we had little love or respect for that n****r lovin’ Yankee, so joking was taking place.
Then Coach Young, he of the piercing light-blue eyes who could see right through you (who also gave me my first baseball glove years earlier, as he and my father were friends) came into the locker room. His look stilled the room . . . .
I remember watching the funeral and the cortège on television.
I’m not sure, but I think school was closed for a couple of days.
This weekend, I went to Philadelphia to visit kids.
It’s not great cinematography by any means. It’s completely unedited; the camera has a wide-angle lens, so there’s a fisheye effect; and there’s no narration. Nevertheless, if you haven’t crossed the bay on the CBBT, you might enjoy it.
There are three hi-def segments in *.mov format. Because of the hi-def, the files are quite large and may take a while to download:
Northbound Segment One: from the entrance to the south island, where I stopped for breakfast because of the great country ham and the surprisingly reasonable prices (approx. 327MB).
Northbound Segment Two: from the south island to Wise Point (approx. 811MB).
Southbound: Wise Point to Virginia Beach (approx. 1GB).
Last night I watched an episode of Peter Gunn (when I was good, my parents would let me stay up late enough to watch it first-run), which leads me to wonder:
Why is it that, when I was a young ‘un, television shows could tell a complex, nuanced, suspenseful story in half an hour, when today they can’t do it in a season.
Plus it’s got the best theme song ever written.
How can the phrases “Jonas Brothers” and “creative differences” coexist in the same news story?
If you see the words “Philadelphia Cheese Steak” on a menu in these parts, whatever you get is likely an abominable and detestable crime against nature.
I’ve finally found an exception–a place that knows that putting steak and cheese in a bun does not magically morph them into a “Philly Cheese Steak,” that cheese steaks do not include chunks of chuck, portions of peppers, tablespoons of tomatoes, or, for Pete’s sake, mounds of (shudder) mayonnaise.
Elias Cafe at Aragona and the Boulevard just a few blocks west of Pembroke makes as good a cheese steak as I ever had at the Deerhead (where the Deerhead double with everything is the cat’s meow and the bee’s knees).
They also throw a good breakfast, a great Greek salad, and gorgeous gyros.
My friend was irritated by my habit of interrogating wait staff about their so-called “cheese steaks” on their menus.
Then she had a cheese steak at Elias Cafe.
She still may not approve, but now she understands . . . .
Every time I must pull (or, more commonly, find a cutting implement to remove) a seal from some simple household product, I damn the Tylenol killer anew.
What’s really sad about this column is not its purported point (that, by how they might look or dress, women don’t “ask for” being raped).
It is the casual, tacit acceptance by the writer, a young college student, that women
I lived near and drove in Philly for a quarter century.
This is old news.
It occurs to me that the silly and stupid fuss over Miley Cyrus’s silly and stupid performance at the MTV awards is emanating from persons who think Hannah Montana is real.
After I drafted this (you really don’t think I spend all day on this stuff, do you?), I stumbled over an interesting and reasonably sane conversation on this topic at Delaware Liberal.
Addendum, the Next Day:
This article puts the ruckus into a cultural and historical perspective that seems sensible.